


This is a Declaration

by surlybobbies



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cas is Human, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, SUCH FLUFF, Shipper!Sam, and lives in the bunker, canon-divergent, etc. - Freeform, i'm so glad it's done, idk - Freeform, maybe slight crack?, rated for language, this has been in my docs for months
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 16:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4398413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surlybobbies/pseuds/surlybobbies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I am not disturbed by the children’s show, Dean,” Cas says.  “I was simply meditating on its message.”</p><p>Dean blinks.  “The...birthday thing?”</p><p>“Yes.”  He sits down again and leans his elbows on his knees, staring at Dean expectantly.  </p><p>Dean sighs.  Of course Cas wants to have a philosophical discussion about birthdays at ass o’clock in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is a Declaration

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr as surlybobbies. Also, check out my other recent deancas fic, "Problem-Solving."

It’s 2am in the bunker, and Dean hears children singing. He slows his steps, more freaked out than he wants to admit, tilting his head to figure out where it’s coming from. He approaches the edge of the library doorway cautiously. As more of the dark room comes into view, he sees the ghostly play of flickering lights on bookshelves and tables. The singing is louder. 

_“Happy birthday, happy birthday...happy birthday to you.”_

“The hell?” Dean mutters to himself. He peeks his head into the room, ready to shout for Sam to bring the salt because the bunker’s being haunted by fucking schoolkids. But he doesn’t call for Sam, because as it turns out, there isn’t a group of creepy-ass ghost kids celebrating their birthday (deathday?) in the Men of Letters library. No - it’s Cas, sitting in front of Dean’s laptop, squinting his eyes at a children’s show.

_“Birthdays are a time to celebrate the day your friends were born!”_

_“But what’s so special about the day we were born? It’s just a regular day, after all.”_

_“Oh, Trixie. I celebrate your birthday because if you weren’t born, I wouldn’t have you as a friend!”_

_“I see. Then, when your birthday comes around, I’ll celebrate too!”_

The voices of the children are far too sweetly sincere to actually be sincere. As Dean approaches, he finds himself wincing. “Cas, man. The hell are you watching?”

Cas turns his head to look at Dean, unembarrassed and unflappable as ever. “Dean,” he greets gravely, which Dean thinks is an understandable consequence of watching the children’s show. “I was watching cat videos when one of the suggestions led me to this children’s TV show. The main characters are cats.” 

And sure enough, the characters, who have struck up another verse of the birthday song, are badly animated characters of the feline variety. They’re twitchy and don’t blink enough. It gives Dean the creeps. 

“Uh - you can just change the video if you want to.”

Cas nods, but he’s already turned back to the monitor, distracted. One cat, larger than the rest and with a disturbingly large bosom, wheels in a humongous cake for the birthday celebrant, a black kitten with blue eyes. Cas watches the screen, but Dean can’t bring himself to watch the tragedy of modern animation on the screen. 

Instead, he watches Cas, which is an occurrence that seems to happen more and more often nowadays. He stands at Cas’s shoulder and traces Cas’s profile, memorizes the way his forehead furrows, the way his eyes flick between the characters, the hunch of his shoulders, and the attentive fold of his hands in front of him. But mostly Dean stares at Cas’s lips, imagines the way they might feel against Dean’s temple, on Dean’s jaw, neck, lips -

The program ends - _“I’m glad you’re my friends,”_ the black kitten says happily; the other kittens meow happily in response - and Cas sighs, straightening. Dean snaps back to reality, clearing his throat.

“There, buddy - curiosity satisfied? Because y’know, curiosity will kill the cat.” Dean chuckles at his joke, but Cas tilts his head up to look at Dean, looking mildly affronted.

“The cats don’t deserve to be killed for wanting to celebrate the day of their birth.”

Dean nods at that, just once, and tries not to laugh, pressing his lips together. Don’t make jokes around the former angel. Right. “‘Course. Sorry.” He claps a hand on Cas’s shoulder. “But seriously, Cas, go to bed. We ain’t exactly young anymore - we need our beauty sleep.”

Cas nods, though he does so with a discernable sigh. He shuts the laptop. “Thank you for letting me borrow your laptop, Dean,” he says, bowing his head slightly. “It was useful to my research.”

“Anytime, bud, you just gotta ask,” Dean says, already walking away. He doesn’t think watching cat videos can be considered research, but if Cas does, Dean will humor him. He waits at the library door for his friend, who lingers at the table to stare at the laptop. He seems troubled. 

It causes a lurch in Dean’s gut, because Cas historically tends to fuck off to God-knows-where when he’s upset.

“Uh, earth to Cas,” he calls. Cas seems to shake himself out of his stupor. He looks at Dean. “Listen, I know the cats were creepy as all fuck, but you gotta let it go. Think of something else. They won’t come through the monitor to attack you in your sleep.”

Cas’s glare can probably wither grapes. “I am not disturbed by the children’s show, Dean,” he says. “I was simply meditating on its message.”

Dean blinks. “The...birthday thing?”

“Yes.” He sits down again and leans his elbows on his knees, staring at Dean expectantly. 

Dean sighs. Of course Cas wants to have a philosophical discussion about birthdays at ass o’clock in the morning. He walks back toward Cas’s corner, pulling a chair with him. He sits down heavily. “Okay, hit me with it,” he says, “What’s your issue with birthdays?”

“I have no issue with birthdays. I was only thinking that I would like to celebrate yours with you.”

Dean wants to laugh, but he finds he can’t, rendered unable to by the sincerity in Cas’s voice. Instead, he shrugs, lifting a palm in the air absently. “Uh, well, it’s not for a couple months, Cas.”

“Will you allow me to be there?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I’ll let you ‘be there.’”

That seems to quell something in Cas, because he exhales and lets his head fall, but not before Dean sees the beginnings of a small smile. “Thank you, Dean,” he says to his shoes, oddly quiet. 

Dean can’t speak. He feels overcome both by an urge to start throwing things and to run a hand over the curve of Cas’s shoulder. It’s amazing to Dean, in a sad way, how Cas can still be so oblivious about what he is to the Winchesters. To Dean.

He bites his lip and curls his nails into his palms. “The hell, man,” he mutters finally, “Don’t thank me - if you weren’t there I’d be pissed at you… so you better fucking be there, okay?”

Cas looks up - he’s schooled his features into a somewhat neutral expression, but as he nods once, slowly, Dean catches an upward twitch of the lips on Cas’s face.

He can’t help himself. He leans forward and reaches out a hand to grip Cas’s knee. “We will always want you around, Cas,” he says. “You don’t need an invite to see us.”

Cas’s answering nod is slow to come. “I understand, Dean,” he says. Dean wonders if he really does.

 

The next morning, Dean leans against the fridge and sips sullenly at his coffee, watching Cas nod off in an armchair in the other room. Sam wanders past holding a plate of egg whites and does a double-take at Dean’s expression.

“Uh… something wrong, Dean?”

Dean motions to the former angel with the hand holding the mug. “That dumbass.”

Sam blinks - once, twice. “Wow, uh - you wanna tell me how you really feel?”

Dean drains his coffee and puts it into the sink with a little more force than necessary. “You wanna know what he said to me last night?”

“Probably not, but go ahead.”

“The dumbass wanted to be ‘allowed’ to ‘be there’ for my birthday.” He’s so mad he even does the air quotes.

Sam stares, still holding his plate of egg whites. “And?”

“And what? He wants to celebrate ‘having me as a friend,’ apparently.”

“And what did you say? You did tell him yes, right?”

Dean’s brows draw together in indignation. “Wh - you too? I said yes, Sam.” He throws a hand in the air. “I can’t belie - Of course I said yes - I want the guy there, and both of you should fucking know that by now.”

Sam lifts a palm in a calming gesture. “Okay, okay - but Dean, can you blame us? You’re not exactly a… a cuddly kitten about these things… it’s easy to think you’d rather be left alone. And that’s especially true for Cas.”

The reminder of kittens draws a glare out of Dean. “Don’t you fucking talk about those kittens,” he says, and stalks out of the kitchen, grabbing the plate of egg whites in Sam’s hand as he does. He ignores Sam’s confused splutters and retreats into his room.

 

The egg whites are tasteless and despite stealing them from his little brother, Dean doesn’t feel any better. He’s on his back on his bed, staring at the nondescript ceiling and trying to get the thrumming in his head to calm down. There’s a roiling in his gut that has nothing to do with the eggs and a lot to do with the faraway expression on Cas’s face last night when Dean finally got the guy to agree to go to bed. 

Dean sighs. There’s no way Cas will understand what he means to the Winchesters until he’s shown, in no uncertain terms, what he means to the Winchesters. But how is Dean supposed to accomplish that? Without freaking the guy out with romantic declarations? 

The answer, in the face of everything, is obvious.

He runs a hand over his face and groans. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he says into the air, before heaving himself up and grabbing his keys from his bedside table.

“Sammy!” he calls, as he exits his room and passes Sam’s door. “I’m going to the store!”

He ignores Sam’s responding shout about organic cereal, just as he tries to ignore the way his heart twists in his chest at the sight of Cas in the kitchen, squinting and half-asleep at the coffee maker.

“I’m - uh, I’m going out.”

Cas blinks at Dean; it looks painful, but that’s just his default expression before 9am. “Okay. Be safe.”

 

When Dean gets back, laden with grocery bags, Cas is warming up leftovers for lunch. He gets one foot into the kitchen before realizing what he’s holding. “Er. I’ll - uh, excuse myself.”

He backtracks out of the room, conscious of Cas’s bemused stare, and turns into the hallway leading to his room. Sam is just exiting his room when he sees Dean struggling with the bags.

“Dean? You didn’t want to drop that in the pantry or something?”

“Shit - uh.” Dean, startled by his brother, nearly drops the biggest bag, but Sam darts forward to catch it with an ‘oof.’ 

He straightens, raising an eyebrow at the contents of the bag. “Icing? Candles? Dean, if this is some kinky food play or - uh. God. Pain play, can you keep it out of the bunker? Please?”

“Pain pl - no, what the hell?” Dean feels a flush rising up his neck. He scowls, but the bags still sliding out of his arms takes away much of the impact. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What am I supposed to think, Dean? My birthday isn’t for nearly a year, and Cas doesn’t have one, so you can’t possibly be throwing a party - ”

The heat crawls past Dean’s collar and up to the tips of his ears. This, more than anything, is probably what gives him away. 

Sam’s expression slowly grows from appalled to appallingly joyous as comprehension dawns. “You are, aren’t you?” he demands in a whisper. “For Cas?” 

The brightness in his eyes makes Dean suspect that Sam might actually start crying.

He grapples roughly for the bag in Sam’s hands and doesn’t answer. He stalks toward his door and manages to wrest it open.

Sam follows his brother into the room eagerly. “Dean, this is a great idea,” he says, taking the largest bag from Dean’s arms. He peeks at the contents, grinning. “Aw, man, balloons, too?”

Dean, having tossed the other bags onto his mattress, runs a hand over his jaw and, red-faced, mumbles, “The helium tank’s in the car.”

Sam looks up from the bag. His eyes are shining. 

Dean can’t help it; he grins too. “You’re in charge of decorations, Samantha.”

 

 

“This is dumb.”

Dean powered through the night on the promise of the novelty of surprising Cas, but the closer sunrise gets, the more nervous Dean becomes. And it’s beginning to show.

He stares at the cake he’s baked and feels his masculinity dwindle the longer he stares at it. It’s a nice cake, considering it was made from scratch, but Dean still feels uneasy about it. It rests innocently in the circular pan it was baked in. “This is dumb,” he repeats to Sam, who sighs where he’s stationed in front of a small helium tank. “I can’t believe I just baked a fucking sheet cake for a warrior of God.”

“You could have made him a sandwich and he would have been happy, Dean. Just relax.”

“What the hell do I write on it?”

“Uhm, how about ‘Happy birthday?’”

“What if I - I dunno, offend him or something? He doesn’t really have a birthday, does he?”

“Dean, he’s known you for years. I highly doubt a birthday greeting, of all the things you’ve said to him, will offend him.”

At the truth of that statement, Dean falls into a sullen silence. He stares some more at the cake, piping bag poised in his hand, waiting for inspiration to strike in a way that will leave at least some of his dignity intact.

As he waits, there’s another long-suffering sigh from Sam. He ties off another balloon as he says, “Here, write this - ‘Happy birthday, Cas. Love, your loving forever lover Dean.’”

“You shut your mouth,” Dean growls, though he suspects the intended effect is lessened by the fact that he’s holding a piping bag full of pink icing and is wearing an apron.  
His suspicions are confirmed when Sam only smirks in response and says, “Careful, dude - your crush is showing.”

Which, okay, it totally is - but still. Dean takes aim. He squeezes the piping bag. And - 

“Dean, what _the hell?_ ”

“Oh, I’m sorry, let me help - oh, no, did I get it in your hair that time, I’m so sorry, here - have another _facefull, bitch -_ ”

“ - Don’t you da - “

“ - nice dye job, Samantha, pink suits you - “

“ - hope Cas - ow - hates your damn cake - “

“ - my cake is delicious, asshole - oh shit.“

“...you are such an idiot.”

The balloons, previously tied loosely to the arm of Sam’s chair, float free, agonizingly slowly but already out of reach and gaining altitude. The high ceilings of the bunker’s living room mock them.

“You couldn’t fucking tie them properly?”

“You couldn’t keep icing your cake?”

Dean opens his mouth to retort, but stops short when he notices Sam’s eyes bugging out at something over his shoulder. Oh, no.

“Sam? Dean?”

Dean groans quietly. “See what you did?” he hisses. Slowly, pasting a pleasant grin on his face, he turns. “Morning, Sleepyhead! What are you doing up? It’s 6am!” He steps forward and tries to usher Cas out of the room. “Go back to bed,” he says, hiding the piping bag behind his back.

But Cas holds up a hand as Dean advances. “You are both acting very strange,” he says slowly, and his hand twitches like he’s about to smite someone, angel-powers or not. “Usually I ignore it, as strangeness is an unavoidable result of the life you lead, but this isn’t the usual strange. This is a... happy strange.” He squints. “Why are you happy?” He seems to brace himself for a struggle, one foot sliding behind the other. 

This is not how Dean was expecting this to go. “Whoa, whoa, Cas, buddy - calm down.” He raises both his hands. He sees Cas’s eyes flick toward the piping bag, which only seems to feed his confusion. “We’re fine. See? We’re just baking.”

Cas drops his hand a scant inch. “It’s 6am,” he says. He spares a second to look at Dean’s apron, then his own pajamas and bare feet. “Why are you baking at 6am?”

Dean cranes his head over his shoulder to look at Sam, who shrugs. 

Their cover was blown as soon as Cas walked out; it’s no use trying to dig a cover story out of their asses now. “Okay,” Dean sighs. “Okay, just give us a minute.” He walks back to his cake and starts icing it silently. Sam tears open a package of specialty candles.

Cas watches all of this with a suspicious frown, but as Sam starts situating a single candle on the cake, his hand falls to his side. “That’s a birthday cake,” he says.

If Dean weren’t burning up with embarrassment, he might offer a sarcastic remark. As it is, he simply steps back and presses his lips together as Sam lights the candle. He avoids Cas’s eyes. 

Then the giant moose picks up the pan, starting an enthusiastic solo rendition of “Happy Birthday” as he offers it to Cas. It’s obvious that Sam doesn’t expect Dean to join in, and Dean doesn’t particularly want to anyway. He hangs back and stares at the heels of Sam’s shoes.

Sam ends the song with a big, “Happy birthday, Cas!” and to Dean, it all seems so - it’s just that Sam doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get why Dean did this, or else he wouldn’t be smiling so widely, like this is just a normal birthday. This isn’t just a birthday party. This is a - this is a fucking declaration. This is Dean stating to Cas, in no uncertain terms, that Cas is family. This is Dean stating that he needs Cas here, all the time, in all the ways possible. 

Or it would be, if he could look Cas in the eye. He stares at the cake that’s been set on the dining table. It’s a shitty cake: it’s not even out of the pan. It’s a shitty cake in a beaten-up cake pan with shitty artificially colored icing, and how could he even think of giving this to Cas? No wonder Sam can laugh about this; everything about this is laughable. 

He steps forward. “Cas, just forget - “

But he falls short at the stunned look on Cas’s face, and the way his throat moves as he stands stiffly near the table, staring at the cake. The man’s eyes are suspiciously glossy. “Happy birthday, Cas,” he reads, half breathless, “With love, your family.” He takes a breath, then clears his throat. When he turns to look at Sam and Dean, his smile is shaky with emotion. “Thank you both,” he says. 

Dean is prepared to brush it off, but Sam steps in, his smile now sly. “Don’t thank me, Cas; it was Dean’s idea.” He pulls Dean forward. “All of it.” 

So maybe Sam does get it, Dean thinks. Hell, he probably understands why Dean did this more than Dean himself. He almost feels sorry for squirting icing in his hair. Almost.

“Dean.” 

Cas’s expression is so affectionate it nearly makes Dean bolt. But this is it. This is a declaration. “Yeah, Cas?”

Cas doesn’t move from his place near the cake; he rests a few fingers on the lip of the pan. “Thank you,” he repeats, voice thick and eyes earnest. “No one has - no one has ever celebrated my life before.” 

Which is, holy shit, the worst absolute thing to say, because now Dean feels a distinct stinging at the back of his eyes. He blinks furiously. “We should have done this years ago, Cas.”

Cas smiles down at his bare feet. A lone tear spills over. 

“Seriously, dude,” Dean says, stepping forward. “You’re family. We’re here for you, and we want you around.” He grips Cas’s shoulder. “ _I_ want you around. All the time. Even when it doesn’t seem like it.”

“‘Til death do you part.” 

Dean greets this interruption from Sam with an upraised middle finger, but Cas’s expression doesn’t waver. He grins at Sam, then at Dean. “I am amenable to that.”

And, okay, maybe he has no idea that he’s just agreed to what is usually considered a marital vow. But still, it makes Dean’s heart lurch. “Well, good,” he says, voice slightly strangled, “Because I’m not going anywhere.” He swipes at the tear track on Cas’s cheek, but doesn’t trust himself with anything else.

Cas’s eyes flutter shut for a moment before they open wide just as suddenly. “I need to blow the candle,” he says, like he’s reading a death sentence. “According to Kitten Playtime, this is typically the moment I make a wish and extinguish the flame.”

“Kitten playtime?” Sam repeats quizzically.

“It is a TV show,” Cas supplies, before turning to the cake, where an 8 candle has been repurposed as an infinity symbol.

Sam nods once, then asks, very hesitantly, “Is this show like the show with the pizza man and the babysitter because - “ He stops when Dean glares at him. 

Cas is smiling as he closes his eyes. Dean’s accosted by an urge to touch him - to push a hand through his sleep-rucked hair, or fit his hand to the skin showing above the waistband of Cas’s pajamas. He curls his fingers into his own palms instead, and swallows hard when Cas opens his eyes and leans over to blow the candle out.

Dean sends his own wish out into the world as the flame dies.

Cas turns his thousand-watt smile on Dean. “Thank you, Dean,” he says once more, “And you too, Sam. Thank you.”

Sam bobs his head in acknowledgement, then sends a wide-eyed look to Dean. “No prob, Cas; happy birthday. I’m gonna go get a knife to cut the cake. I just have to find it. It might take a while. Like. A long while. So. Kick off your shoes. Relax.” And he spins on his heel and walks out of the room.

Cas stares after him in confusion. “I have no shoes on. And that is not the way to the kitchen.”

“Yeah, bud. He’s - uh. He’s giving us privacy, I think.”

“For what? This is a party.”

Dean looks at the cake, with its poor icing job and literally crumby texture. He looks at the ceiling, where the balloons bob mockingly out of reach, then at the icing smeared on the floor around him. The streamers are still in their packaging. “Some party we threw you, bud.”

“I am enjoying it nonetheless,” Cas says. His smile doesn’t waver in strength; if anything, it grows brighter. Like a declaration. 

“Look, Cas,” Dean says, lifting his hand to Cas’s shoulder again, “You get why we did this, right? Like you really understand?”

“You wanted to celebrate my life,” Cas supplies dutifully; his smile widens around the words. 

God, Dean wants to kiss him. He clears his throat instead. “Yeah, Cas. But you know. We wanted you to know that you’re family. We want you around.”

“You said that already,” Cas points out, and there’s that unabashed affection again, reflected in his wide blue eyes; he looks at Dean as if he is the most amazing of God’s creatures. 

If only he could live up to that expectation. 

“And me, especially,” Dean says, more quietly. “I need you here, man. You’re my best friend. And - you know. You can ask anything from me, and I’ll do my best to get it to you.” He means to pat Cas’s cheek affectionately, but once his hand curves around Cas’s jaw, it stays there. “I want you to be happy. And I don’t want you to ever doubt that.”

Cas searches Dean’s eyes long enough for Dean to feel awkward. He’s drawing back and taking his traitorous hand with him when Cas reaches up to grasp Dean’s wrist. “You said I can ask anything from you,” he says.

Dean has several theories about where this could go, but there’s only one he wished for. “Yeah, of course, Cas. It’s your birthday,” he says, aiming for casual and missing it by a lightyear. 

“Then can I have this?” Cas asks softly, as he tugs Dean’s hand back to its place on his cheek.

Dean’s throat goes dry. The stubble under his fingers is intensely distracting. “You mean - uh. You know what that means, right?”

Judging by the way Cas’s gaze has dropped to Dean’s lips, he does. He nods, too, which cements Dean’s resolve. 

Dean licks his lips. “Well, uh, yeah. You can - you can have it. Then. Good.” 

Cas’s nose scrunches up like he finds something funny, but before he can comment, Dean leans in, quelling Cas’s amusement under his lips. The kiss is gentle and slow - completely unlike the raunchy birthday kisses Dean has received in the past - but it’s fitting: a small reprieve in the hellish pace of their lives. Very soon, however, Cas is drawing back, his lips stretching into a smile before he’s laughing against Dean’s lips.

“You are very eloquent,” he teases.

Dean scowls, but presses in close. He fits a hand to Cas’s hip, effectively wiping the smile off Cas’s face and replacing it with something else entirely. “Oh, I can be eloquent,” says Dean into Cas’s temple. “I just can’t guarantee it will be PG.”

“Are we referring to the pizzaman and the babysitter again?” Cas says, turning his nose into Dean’s neck and pressing warm, open lips against it. “Because if you are, my birthday wish is already coming true.”

Holy shit. What. Dean’s lost his cool. Did he ever have it? He probably lost it years ago in a barn in Pontiac, Illinois. “Yeah,” he says sort of breathlessly. “If - if you want.”

Cas makes a contemplative sound against Dean’s jaw, which rattles Dean down to the bone and sends shivers wracking his spine. “Well, I would prefer it to Kitten Playtime,” Cas says lightly.

Dean swallows his nerves and laughs. “Me, too,” he murmurs, dragging a hand across the skin above Cas’s waistband and clutching the man tighter to him. He surges forward to capture Cas’s lips. It’s not just a kiss; it’s a declaration.

**Author's Note:**

> Can anyone guess which line made me pause in my writing and run away for a good cry? It's the saddest line in this otherwise _disgustingly_ fluffy fic.


End file.
